


Advance

by ssa_archivist



Category: Smallville
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-07-17
Updated: 2002-07-17
Packaged: 2017-11-01 11:25:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/356181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssa_archivist/pseuds/ssa_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Never let your kid know when you're going away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Advance

## Advance

by JC Sun

<http://joyce.jteers.net/fanfiction/>

* * *

Never let your kid know when you're going away. Not in advance. Not even if your kid is Clark Kent and is the most straight-growing Boy Scout in the neighborhood, because there's garunteed to be a pervert around to kink him all up. Don't fool yourself. Your kid's going to call him over anyway. Your kid learned the intricacies of deep-throating from him, and Lex's fingers and mouth have promised all kinds of delights that even the threat of a really bad grounding can't root out of a teenage boy's system. Your kid will call his friend over. Delaying telling your kid about it means delaying the time when your kid is tugging eight-hundred dollar pants off his boyfriend like a twenty-dollar hooker dives for a tip. 

Telling your kid about it in advance means that the boyfriend doesn't even have to bring beer and pizza like he normally would. Telling your kid about when you're going away in advance means that the boyfriend brings his silver Porsche to a rumbly halt in front of your house about ten minutes after you've left. Your kid comes running out of the house and just kinda stares at his boyfriend, resplendent in a light grey linen suit with a violet shirt when it's so hot that your kid thinks he's going to melt onto the asphalt if he doesn't crank up the AC some. Telling your kid about it means that less than fifteen minutes after you leave, the boyfriend pins him up against the side of the house and, in the shade of the rhodenderons and hidden from the eyes of neighbors and the telescopes of local boys, kisses him breathless. 

On the other hand, though, if you don't tell your kid and just leave him a note on the kitchen table about supper being in the fridge and about being back on Sunday morning, the boyfriend has to go to the liquor store. Go into the fridge and find the stock of beer he keeps just for occaisions like this, beer that Clark will drink. Order a pizza, because the in-house chef would quit if he asked for something as tacky as sausage and pepperoni with mushrooms on thick. Wait for the pizza to arrive. Snatch the pizza out of the delivery boy's hand, load this and the beer into the car. Run back into the house for some DVDs to watch, realize that the Kents don't have a DVD player, run back in, steal some VHS tapes form the housekeeper's room, then drive like a fiend out to your house. This delays him about forty-five minutes, and the boyfriend is more than half-crazed when he arrives. He's doing thirty-five over the speed limit instead of the usual twenty. 

Which is a good thing, if your Jonathon Kent. Frustrating the fuck out of Luthors beats a quarter point on corn futures anyday. 

Not telling your kid in advance that you're going out of town means that it's another forty-five minutes before your son is kneeling in front of his boyfriend on the couch, mouth wrapped around his cock, those soft hazel eyes looking up at him in nothing so much as sheer adoration. Another forty-five minutes before your son, one hand rubbing himself through his pants, the other on Lex's knee, squeezes so hard that Lex yanks his knee up out of Clark's fingers and yells, "Jesus Christ, Clark! Watch out, will you? I think you touched a nerve." 

Clark, your son, doesn't say anything, though. He just makes this incoherent kind of moan. Wiith a strength that surprises Lex more than it hurts him, Clark pins Lex to the couch and fumbles until he gets that cock back in his mouth; he makes desperate, greedy little noises during it too, and if the noises weren't enough, Lex also has that hot, hot tongue wrapping around him and. . . 

This might be worse, if you're Jonathon Kent. If you've got a spaceship hidden in your basement, if your super-powered, fell-from-the-goddamned-sky adopted son insists on sucking cock like it's the last thing holding him to Earth. A bad thing, indeed, if your super-powered, fell-from-the-goddamn-sky, sole-survivor-of-mass-extinction, last-of-his-kind adopted son insists on falling in love, insists on falling in love like it's the only thing holding him to sanity. 


End file.
